Setanta
by Ossian
Summary: The effects of the Witchblade on Sara and the lives around her.
1. The Cop

author's notes: This story was never intended to extend past this first short vignette of Sara. Once I agreed to write "just one more section" it quickly got completely out of hand and the whole story insisted on being told.  
  
It is based predominantly on an AU first season in which the Great Rewind has not and will not take place. Elements have been drawn, however, from both seasons, the comic books, the novels, and my own compulsive filling in of the blanks between them all.  
  
I have eschewed all original characters, most especially Mary-Sue's, opting instead to submit as my intrusion in the world of the Witchblade my imposition of certain guidelines governing Mythology in these characters' lives.  
  
disclaimer: Any resemblance to characters or concepts copyrighted by Top Cow, Michael Turner, TNT, Mythic Films, or Warner Brothers is more than slightly coincidental. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. All parties mentioned above should consider themselves flattered.  
  
* * * *  
  
Setanta  
  
She knows that the Witchblade draws him. She knows because for the past month whenever she wakes in the middle of the night she finds him there. She steps on him once, curled as he is on the floor beside her bed. It occurs to her only after he flees that he seems as startled to find himself there as she does.  
  
After that first night she is careful to check before she swings her feet over the side of her bed. She shouts at him the second night too. And the third. On the fourth night she stays awake to shout at him as he climbs through the window. She is puzzled to see that his dark eyes are blank and he does not seem to hear her. The Witchblade winks at her mischievously and she knows then that this is not his fault. She has waited for him on the sofa and so it is there that he curls at her feet. She steps over him in exasperation and goes back to bed. But she doesn't rouse him. In the morning he is gone.  
  
On the fifth night she neither waits up nor shouts when she wakes. She peers over the edge of the mattress and is not surprised to find him there on the floor. He looks so innocent, she thinks, though she knows he is not. He looks peaceful, but she wonders at the raw marks on his wrists. She watches him sleep for a long time and makes faces at the silent Asian ghost when he smirks. When her alarm clock goes off she opens her eyes, surprised that she has slept. She is not surprised to find her floor unoccupied.  
  
Sometime in the next week she begins pushing a pillow off her bed before she goes to sleep. No reason, she tells herself. Same for the extra blanket that she kicks off in the middle of the night. When she settles the blanket over his shoulders she sometimes has to brush a lock of hair away from his face. Sometimes she is too sleepy to move again and leaves her fingers tangled there, his face warm against the palm of her hand. When morning comes the blanket is always neatly folded beneath the pillow.  
  
She still sees him during the day too. He is never far away. Occasionally she manages to catch his gaze and hold it for a moment. Her rookie partner sees half of this exchange once or twice and asks why she is smiling. She shakes her head and tells him he's imagining things. She ignores the smirking ghost too.  
  
She hasn't seen his boss in a few weeks, not since this began. Somehow she doesn't think that he will be as amused by the situation as her dead partner is. It worries her that she is concerned about hiding this from him.  
  
She is beginning to remember more and more about the Witchblade. With it, she is remembering more about him as well. When she sleeps with his cheek beneath her hand he is with her in the dreams. She calls him by different names, though he always remains constant. Always loyal, always fierce, and always there.  
  
She is beginning to wish for a few memories of her own, not supplied by the Witchblade in visions and dreams. She decides that there are things she does not want to know only secondhand, things she would like to learn for herself. When he comes through the window there is no pillow on the floor. It doesn't take much to steer him away from the spot beside her bed.  
  
She knows that he will be startled when he first awakens, until he realizes that she, not the Witchblade, has orchestrated his position. Or perhaps that will scare him more, she muses wryly. Still, he seems at ease where he is, adjusting unconsciously to a position he hasn't slept in for more than a century. His feet hang over the end of the mattress, as they have done in every lifetime that she can now remember. It's the only way his head will rest against her shoulder when she refuses to move higher in the bed. His arm is heavy across her waist, possessive and protective, and strangely she doesn't mind.  
  
She knows from a myriad of memories that if they start out this way, by morning they will be reversed. He will be on his back and her head will nestle in the hollow of his shoulder. She knows also that he will be lying diagonally so that his feet no longer hang off the bed. He will kick if he has to. She remembers many lifetimes of bruised shins and punches his shoulder at the memory. Even in sleep his snort sounds amused. He burrows further under the covers and sighs contentedly. She smiles at the strange domestic familiarity of it all.  
  
His deep, steady breathing is lulling. His warmth is a comfort. Knowing that this time he will still be there when she wakes in the morning, she allows herself to slide into sleep as well. 


	2. The Assassin

He knows that the Witchblade draws him. He knows because for the past month whenever he wakes in the middle of the night he finds himself in the wielder's apartment. She steps on him once, curled as he is on the floor beside her bed. He doesn't blame her for being upset by his intrusion. He is a little unnerved by it himself.  
  
After that first night he hopes that the Witchblade has had its fun and will let him be. When he wakes again to her shouting on the next night he knows that such is not the case. On the third night he handcuffs himself to his own bedstead though he knows it is a futile gesture. If he can navigate the streets of New York in his sleep he suspects that the slim steel bracelets will not present much of a challenge to his hijacked subconscious. As he trudges home again after being banished from her apartment for the third night in a row he curses the Witchblade's perverse sense of humor. Though it has loosed his admittedly feeble chains to pull him halfway across the city, it can't seem to be bothered with finding his shoes before it takes him.  
  
On the fourth night he vows to stay awake and prevent yet another nocturnal trek at the Witchblade's whim, but he keeps his boots on just the same. He is slightly disoriented to wake before her sofa instead of beside her bed. It takes but a moment to realize that she must have waited up for his arrival and retired only after he lay down at her feet. He is puzzled that she has allowed him to remain through the night and dares a quick look at her though he knows he should not. Her slumber seems remarkably undisturbed by the knowledge that an assassin has been sleeping in her living room. He leaves quietly before she awakens and decides to evict him noisily after all.  
  
On the fifth night he binds himself more securely to the bedstead and hopes only to delay the inevitable. He discovers that the Witchblade is not amused by his attempts to thwart it even slightly. Instead of allowing him to methodically unravel, unlatch, unlock all he has done to constrain himself the Witchblade wrenches him from his restraints to follow its bidding. He wakes in the predawn hour, not to the wielder's shouting but to the throbbing in his raw wrists. He is surprised to look up and see her face at the edge of her mattress. It almost appears as though she watches him sleep. He thinks that this is unlikely but stares up at her in wonder nonetheless. She looks peaceful, he thinks sadly and knows that she could not aware of his presence.  
  
Sometime in the next week he begins waking at dawn to find a pillow beneath his head and a blanket pulled over his shoulders as he lies on her floor. He has long since perfected his skills at being able to sleep in the roughest circumstances, in the most inhospitable conditions. That she attempts to provide him with even a minimum of comfort that he does not need offers him a hope that he dare not consider. Even when he wakes with her small hand curled against his cheek he is afraid to believe that she knows he is there.  
  
He still sees her during the day too. Truthfully he cannot bear to be far from her. Though he tries to remain in the shadows she invariably finds him skulking there. Sometimes he foolishly allows himself to meet her searching gaze and an oddly amused smile brightens her face. He is both relieved and irritated when her duplicitous partner distracts her before the temptation to smile back becomes too strong. He is confused and annoyed when her dead partner looks at him compassionately. He does not need sympathy from a ghost, he thinks.  
  
He has been avoiding his boss as best he can since this has begun. He has never been adept at lying to anyone, least of all to the man who has always been able to read the truth in his eyes. His best strategy is to stay out of sight, out of range as much as possible, but it is not easy and not particularly effective. He knows that he is only delaying the inevitable, irrevocable confrontation and he is not ready.  
  
He knows that she is beginning to remember more and more about the Witchblade. With those memories come memories of himself as well. When she sleeps with her hand pressed against his face he is with her in the dreams. Many are reiterations of dreams he has had all his life. His ability to see these things even without the Witchblade's intervention is part of the reason he is drawn into its saga lifetime after lifetime. He remembers. He always remembers. And now she is being reminded.  
  
He wakes to the familiar sensation of a pillow beneath his head and a blanket across his body. But he is not resting on the floor and there is more weight on his chest than can be accounted for by a simple bedspread. Turning his head he sees that the Witchblade lies not on the graceful arm flung across him but on the crate that passes for a nightstand beside the bed. He brushes her hair away from his face and marvels once again at how she manages to take up so much space. She is a bed hog, he muses sleepily. It is not out of any inherent selfishness on her part; it is simply because he allows it. There are very few things that he could ever deny her and insisting that she remain on her "half" has never been anywhere near that list. He guiltily recalls that he has probably kicked her shins though. He never remembers the actual deed, but he is well-accustomed to the mock reproach the morning after.  
  
He pulls the blanket higher over them both and resigns himself to a minor lecture in the morning. 


	3. The Morning Of...

Sara Pezzini groped for the alarm clock until her semi-conscious brain recognized that it was the telephone ringing. With a rather unladylike grunt she levered herself up on one forearm to stretch blindly for the cordless on the makeshift nightstand. She was halfway through the familiar motions before she realized that there was something very unfamiliar going on. She pried open her eyes to stare down at the bed's other occupant. Ian Nottingham was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grimace at the elbow digging into his sternum.   
  
For a moment she was at a loss for words. Though she had grown accustomed to his presence in her dreams and even to his nightly occupation of the floor beside her bed, his current proximity was a little unsettling. What had seemed like such a logical progression the night before seemed mildly insane in the cold light of day. It occurred to her now that not even once had she ever sat down for a normal conversation with this man. Not in this lifetime.   
  
It was undoubtedly difficult for him to drop his head into its usual subservient posture while lying flat on his back, but his downcast eyes managed to convey the same sentiment. She reflexively pushed her fingers against his chin although his head had not moved. She was as surprised by the spontaneous gesture as he was, but oddly pleased when his troubled gaze rose to meet her eyes again.  
  
"Pez? Yo Pez? You there?"  
  
She started at the voice in her ear. "Huh? Yeah, Jake. What is it?"   
  
"You oversleep or something?" the rookie's voice crackled on the line. "We got a body in an alley down off Harrington. Want me to swing by and pick you up on my way?"  
  
"No, Jake. I can uh..." Her words trailed off as Ian's head tilted ever so slightly against her hand and her fingers slid along his jaw.   
  
"Pez?"  
  
"Yeah? I mean, no. No, I'll meet you there in forty minutes."  
  
"You sure?" She could almost see his puzzled frown and subsequent shrug. "Alright. See ya then."  
  
Sara remained still, holding the phone to her ear and staring down at Ian as the dial tone quietly hummed. He raised a hand, palm upward, and she placed the phone in it. He returned it to the nightstand without looking away from her face. She shifted her weight off the elbow that had been digging into his chest and tried to decide how to deal with this... situation.   
  
Surely over the millennia they'd been in this position many times before, she thought. But no 'next step' came immediately to mind. Perhaps pulling him into her bed before they'd formally acknowledged their shared history had thrown things off-track. On the other hand, that part actually felt strangely familiar. Patience never had been her strong suit - in this lifetime or any other apparently.  
  
There were only two ways to go, she decided. Back off in confusion and deny the truly impossible or dive in headlong and embrace the impossible truth. She could admit that she'd gone off the deep end at Danny's death and was now delusional, psychotic, and emotionally unstable. Or she could believe that she really was destined to wield a supernatural weapon, converse with ghosts, and fall for the same hazel-eyed warrior across countless centuries.  
  
She sat up abruptly.  
  
"I have to get to work," she said over her shoulder as she scooted toward the far edge of the bed. "If I'm not there in half an hour Jake'll probably call out the cavalry." His fingers brushed across her retreating back and she paused involuntarily at the silent plea. She reluctantly turned to look at the reproachful expression that she knew he would be wearing. "Don't make that face at me," she protested weakly. "I thought I was ready. And I am. Just not right this instant, okay?" She sighed at his meek nod and rolled her eyes out of habit. "Big, wooden, rectangular thing," she said, pointing toward the apartment door. "Knock on it tonight, for once, and we'll... talk. Okay?"  
  
His nod was a little more certain this time. He didn't move as she rose to head for the bathroom, but when she reemerged just a few minutes later he was already gone.   
  
It was going to be a long day, she thought. And possibly an even longer night. 


	4. The Ghost

He waits for her the crime scene; a guardian angel of sorts, though truthfully the most he can do is advise. He would advise her about the human Rottweiler who sleeps beside her bed - or in it now, he amends. But he knows that she wouldn't listen. She is stubborn, he thinks. This is not a new revelation.  
  
He smiles at her startled, annoyed reaction when she sees him standing insubstantially at her elbow. It is a small amusement, but he enjoys it anyway. He misses her scowls as much as he misses her laughter. He sees her often, but it isn't the same any more. Not really. Not at all. Being dead is a bitch, he thinks. This isn't exactly a revelation either.  
  
He imparts what wisdom he can, passes along what information he is allowed. The rules are quirky, he thinks and wishes he could do more to help. There is so much he would tell her if he could. It hurts to see her feel so alone when he knows that she is not. He would tell her the truth. About the armored man-child. About the rookie with the federal pension plan. About the boy carrying an arcane library in his head. He thinks she'd like to know. He knows at least she's on the right track.  
  
Evidence of that is standing in the shadows across the street. He gives in to the absurd urge to wave at the solemn assassin and nearly laughs aloud at the other man's expression. He is sure that a small grin flickers there for a moment, uncharacteristic and priceless. There is a wary understanding between them. They each watch over her in their own ways, though neither is allowed to do as much as they wish. He suspects that may change soon. Unless the lovelorn knight does something stupid. Which is entirely possible. It strikes him as tragically funny that the ancient young man can seem so casually collected in life-threatening situations but be so utterly inept when dealing with the woman he has loved across the ages. Perhaps a little advice in that corner might do a bit of good, he muses.  
  
There is advice he'd like to give the pseudo-rookie too. Breaking from his contemplation of eon-spanning relationships, he finds himself at the transplanted Californian's side, peering down at the latest corpse. Despite his real credentials the kid still has a lot to learn. There is a bit of evidence that has settled between some nearby crates. He points it out although he knows he won't be heard. He feels a surge of almost paternal pride when the rookie turns to find it almost immediately though. Maybe walking daily beside the supernatural is rubbing off on him whether he realizes it or not. He watches the scene a while longer, missing the camaraderie, if not the gruesome job.  
  
As his thoughts drift to other things he has lost he finds himself many miles away from the sad, filthy alley. He watches the mundane daily routine as school lunches are packed and make-up is applied. Shoes are lost and found, orange juice is spilled and mopped up. He wonders if he spent more time here if she would come to feel echoes of his chi as the rookie sometimes seems to. He cannot delude himself though, and he knows that this is not what she needs. She is starting to move on with her life. Although she might still long for his presence, she does not need his ghost.  
  
He resists the temptation to follow them about the rest of their day. It would accomplish nothing and he has work to do. He returns to the cramped office where he seems to spend as much time in death as he did in life. The rookie is in his chair. Government property, he thinks ruefully. Waste not, want not. Their partner is glaring at the case board. He feels the subtle shift in her consciousness as the Witchblade draws her into a vision.  
  
He knows that he is not linked to her like the warrior or the bard, but still he wonders. Now that their paths have crossed once, perhaps they will cross again. It would be an honor. Then he thinks of another dark haired woman. And a pair of laughing children. And even a scowling teenage girl. And he thinks that honor or not, there is still somewhere else he'd rather be. 


	5. The Rookie

He waits for her at the crime scene; a Fed in the guise of a rookie, a spy in the guise of a friend. Sometimes he thinks that maybe he needs a new job. He hates lying to her. Undoubtedly she's going to take it personally. And he knows that she will tear him a new one when she eventually finds out. She is not a good woman to piss off. She is scary even on the best of days, he thinks. He is only half-jesting.  
  
He sees a lot of weird stuff working with her. He does not put most of it into his reports. A neurotic episode probably wouldn't look good on his resume. She has uncanny hunches about things. He would call it woman's intuition, but he doesn't know another woman anything like her. He doesn't know anyone else with her body count either. She kills more people in the line of duty than any officer he knows. Strangely this does not put her at the top of his list of suspect rogue cops. He wonders sometimes if he is making exceptions for her. He doesn't think so, but it still keeps him awake some nights.  
  
She frowns over her shoulder, annoyed at the wind for all he can tell. She seems distracted and pensive and he is glad that he thought to bring her coffee. It is one of the few tips he managed to pick up from her old partner before he died. Maybe she will become civil once the caffeine kicks in. He won't hold his breath.  
  
He watches her mutter to herself and gives a mental shrug. If it works, it works, he thinks. He busies himself with the investigation when she turns her sharp glare on him. It doesn't take long for his feigned interest to become genuine. It is easy to forget that this is not really the job he is here to do. Sometimes it is easier to hunt killers than spy on coworkers. There is so much he would tell her if he could. He would tell her the truth. About his assignment. About his remorse. About the people who deserve her trust even less than he does.  
  
When her frown becomes a smile he is curious about its cause. He follows her line of sight and sees nothing. He is learning though that just because he can't see something doesn't mean it isn't there. He would bet good money that he knows what is in the shadows across the street and that knowledge frustrates him. He can't understand what she sees in the brooding thug. Can't understand why she protects him. An ancient, irrational anger surges through him. There is bad blood between them, and to his chagrin, most of it spilled seems to be his own. There must be something more to the sociopathic soldier-boy if she defends him so staunchly, but he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know either.  
  
He looks away from the unfathomable shadows and returns to the case at hand. It is a good thing he's not really a rookie, he thinks. His partner is a great cop, but not much of a teacher. Still he wishes for a little of her expertise, or even one of her wild intuitive leaps, as he stares down at the corpse. It takes him a moment to shift his perceptions. This is not a formerly vibrant young woman lying on the concrete. This is not a dead girl whose future is now nonexistent. This is just a body, a victim, a statistic. One more piece of evidence. The litany doesn't help. He begins to search for other, less tragic evidence. He finds it wedged between two nearby crates. Sometimes he doesn't like either of his jobs.  
  
The caffeine doesn't seem to be working its usual magic. She is restless and moody all day. He has learned from experience to stay out of her way. She hasn't been like this in weeks, he thinks as he watches her pace their small office. He wonders idly if she had an argument with the dotcom kid. She doesn't seem to be that sort of upset though. A falling out with the thug would cheer him, but he doesn't think that's likely either. She looks at her watch for the seventeenth time since he began counting then glares at the case board. Eventually her lack of motion gets his attention. She's doing that fugue thing again, he thinks with a sigh. He hopes that her subconscious is working out a good theory on this case.  
  
They work for many more hours. Although she looks at her watch enough times that he loses count, she doesn't seem to be in any hurry to go home. He asks if she needs a ride, or maybe dinner. She brushes him off with a not unexpected laugh and finally reaches for her coat. She leaves the department with a sense of determination. He wonders what she has made up her mind about and hopes she's in a better mood tomorrow.  
  
Sometimes he manages to forget why he has come to this insomniac city. He thinks that maybe when this assignment is finished he'd like to stay. If he does, he's definitely getting a new job. He wonders if she'd still let him be her partner. He wonders how the cops' retirement program compares. 


	6. The Evening Of...

It had been a very long day. Sara had spent it trying unsuccessfully to lose herself in her work. It hadn't helped that she had sensed Ian at the crime scene, his presence an excruciating reminder of things to come. Not even the Witchblade's visions had distracted her entirely from her anxious anticipation. Though she had somehow known for a lifetime that this evening's conversation was inevitable, she still didn't have a clue about how to begin it.   
  
As she trudged up the tenement's stairs she debated whether or not to change clothes before he came. It wasn't as if she was trying to impress him, she told herself, but she was still covered in a day's worth of street grime and office grunge. There was even a coffee stain on her shirt. On reflection, she decided that the stain had probably been there for a while. She wasn't sure if she had any other clean clothes. It turned out to be a moot point. As she approached her apartment she saw a dark figure leaning against the wall near her door. He straightened when she drew closer and shrugged at her skeptical expression.  
  
"You said to use the big, wooden, rectangular thing," he said innocently.  
  
She shook her head and dug for her keys. It occurred to her that Ian could probably pick the lock in less time than it took her to find them. When she finally got the door open it occurred to her that he already had. There was a large black coat folded neatly across the back of her sofa and the smell of freshly brewed coffee was drifting out of her kitchen. She looked back at him suspiciously as he followed her inside.  
  
"You were late," he explained, as if it were a perfectly reasonable justification. "I could go back out and knock if you'd like."  
  
His offer sounded so sincere that she was tempted to take him up on it just to see if he'd go. Maybe she could change clothes after all. The coffee smelled good though and she grinned at him instead.   
  
"Sit," she told him, pointing to a kitchen chair. Note to self, she thought as he dropped immediately into the seat. Remarkable similarities aside, the man is not a puppy. "No, don't sit," she tried to correct herself but knew at once that she'd gotten it wrong again. He rose just as promptly with such a look of utter confusion that she had to laugh. "No, don't… I mean…" She sighed and tried one more time. "Please have a seat, Ian."   
  
His expression cleared as he understood her invitation for what it was. He gave her a small, rare smile and sat down slowly. She took the coffee pot from its cradle and poured two mugs. As she stirred a single teaspoonful of sugar into his coffee she was struck once again by the increasingly familiar actions of another's memory. She set his mug down in front of him and took the seat across the table.   
  
They sat in companionable silence for several minutes. It was one thing to feel comfortable with him in her kitchen, she thought, but it wasn't really accomplishing the task of the evening. She set her coffee back on the table and leaned on her elbows.  
  
"We need to sort out a few things," she said finally. He nodded in agreement, his expression a mixture of hope and fear as he set down his own mug. Sara had difficulty keeping track of her thoughts as she met his expectant gaze. "I've missed you," she blurted suddenly. Ian looked startled by her declaration, then one corner of his mouth slowly turned upward.  
  
"Subtlety has not always been one of your more widely recognized characteristics."  
  
"Wise guy," she scolded affectionately and reached across the table to thump his arm. "The least you could do is return the sentiment."  
  
"Always," he assured her, eyes warm with unguarded emotion.  
  
It would be far too easy, Sara knew, to let this devolve into simple flirtation. She had been attracted to men like Ian long before the Witchblade had tumbled into her life this time around. She could almost pretend that he was just another "nocturnal self-destructive bad boy", as Danny called them, who had wormed his way into her heart. But he wasn't, and she couldn't, and there were issues that they had to address before this went any further. She leaned back in her chair, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug to keep them occupied. Ian's expression sobered as he sensed the shift in her mood.  
  
"You've been with Irons your whole life, haven't you?" she asked. She hated the way his head dropped at the question but plunged on doggedly. She wished desperately that she didn't have to, angry that Irons had made it necessary. "I need to know, Ian. When push comes to shove… are you going to be able to choose between us?"  
  
"He has had my loyalty for three decades," Ian said softly. "You have had it for millennia. Do you truly need to ask?"  
  
"I'm sorry," she replied just as quietly. "But this time, yeah. I think I do." She hated doing this, but she couldn't afford to invest anything else in this relationship without being certain. "We may still be the same people, but you know as well as I do that we're always shaped by our environments. All those years with Irons have changed you. He's tried to make you into something you're not and it's left scars. You can see that, can't you?"  
  
"Yes." His voice was nearly inaudible.  
  
"Then you understand why I have to ask. When the time comes… will you be able to choose?"  
  
He lifted his head to meet her gaze. There was a clarity in his eyes that heartened her. "If you help me," he said simply. 


	7. The Night Of...

"So why does the Witchblade seem so fond of you?" Sara asked.  
  
Ian leaned his head on the sofa back and shrugged sleepily. "No reset button?" he suggested.  
  
They had moved from the kitchen into what passed for Sara's living room several hours ago. A few more complicated matters had been hammered out, but recent conversation had drifted into lighter subjects. It had felt almost... normal. She was beginning to think that this must be what contentment felt like when the Witchblade started nudging her. It had prompted her to ask the question before she could wonder why.  
  
"What do you mean, no reset button?"  
  
"The fact that I can always remember things from one life to the next. I don't get a fresh start like everyone else. Memories, obligations, unfinished business, love... They all carry over. That's how I explained it to Mr. Irons when I was a child and I've never found an easier explanation since. No reset button."  
  
"That's part of you?" she said in surprise. "I thought it was something that the Witchblade allowed; I didn't realize it was innate." A bit of memory hummed in the corner of her mind as another piece settled into place. "It lets you see the future sometimes too."  
  
"Not very clearly, but yes," he agreed. "Sometimes."  
  
"Handy guy to have around." She grinned at him and was pleased to see that his answering smiles were becoming quicker as the night progressed.   
  
"The Witchblade seems to think so. It knows you need an ally. Even it admits that you can't do everything on your own."  
  
"And it's been trying to make sure that I let you in."  
  
"The choice is always yours, Sara."  
  
"Like I could really resist something that both you and the Witchblade want?" she laughed. They subsided into comfortable silence once again, but a stray thought still nagged at her and the Witchblade wouldn't let it go. "When you explained it to Irons?" she repeated his earlier words. "He didn't know you could do that when he...? When did he..." her voice trailed away.  
  
"My bloodline is as easy to track as yours if you know where to look," he said, anticipating her unfinished question. "Find one, find the other. I was taken as an infant, the same as you were."  
  
She didn't ask how. From the bleakness in his eyes and her own knowledge of Irons' ruthless efficiency she could easily guess that Ian had no blood relations left.  
  
"So if he didn't know about your 'missing' reset button when he took you then how did he find out?" She suspected that she was treading near the information that the Witchblade was urging her toward. Ian's relaxed posture had snapped rigid again and he leaned forward to brace his forearms against his knees. She could tell that he was measuring his words more carefully now too.  
  
"He began my training at an early age. At first it irritated him that I knew minor random details about the Witchblade without being told. He thought that I was sneaking into his study at night to read. Then..." He broke off, clearly troubled. His head was bent as low as she'd seen it all evening. She moved closer and slid an arm across his back reassuringly.  
  
"No more secrets," she reminded him. "Whatever it is, I'll deal. Okay?"  
  
"You're not going to like this one," he predicted grimly. He tried to give her a wry smile though, and she loved him for the effort.  
  
"Try me."  
  
He drew a deep breath and she almost didn't catch the words that came out in a soft rush.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm not the first Ian Nottingham," he repeated only slightly more slowly. She was glad he wasn't looking at her face as the statement sank in, but she was certain that he felt her shock just the same. She rested her chin on the back of his shoulder as he continued. "The first Ian, the one he actually stole, died at the age of seven. Perhaps training had begun a bit too early. But Mr. Irons had a back-up plan. He always has a back-up plan. He'd funded Dr. DeAngelo's research for just this purpose."  
  
"Clones," she whispered. "Like the Isaacs."  
  
Ian nodded. "More or less. Mr. Irons incorporated some of Elizabeth Bronte's stem cells into the next child," he said. Sara listened in morbid fascination to his flat voice as he recounted the events. "This one remembered everything that the first had been taught and more. I believe that's when he began to realize that he was getting more than he had bargained for. He was understandably frustrated when this one didn't survive past the age of ten. A decade lost," he snorted in unmistakable mimicry of Irons' dismissive words.  
  
"I was the next one," he went on in an astonishingly mechanical tone. Sara pressed her closed eyes against his shirt and let him continue uninterrupted. "By the time I was twelve he realized that I remembered more than simply what my predecessors had learned, more than a few random facts that I hadn't been taught. That's when I tried to explain the reset failure to him. I think that's the first time it ever occurred to him that I could be dangerous... to him. It frightened him that I had a source of information beyond his control. He tried finding a way to exploit it for a time, but eventually he opted for trying to break the link instead. Drugs, radical therapy..."  
  
"Black Dragons," she murmured.  
  
"Among other things."  
  
He fell silent and she knew that she probably wouldn't get anything more out of him on the subject. Though she knew that he thought he was protecting her from his pain, it didn't make it any easier to accept him shutting her out. One more thing to work on, she thought.  
  
"None of it succeeded?"  
  
"What do you think?" he asked, the faintest hint of humor back in his voice.  
  
"I think I'm glad that you told me. No more secrets, we agreed. Don't you feel better now?"  
  
"No," he sighed.  
  
"There's more?"  
  
"Two more. That I know of." His answer was not quite what she'd expected and it took a moment to process. "But I intend to take care of them soon."  
  
"Two more clones?" she said. "Irons has two more embryonic 'you's somewhere?"  
  
"Not exactly." His tone had gone flat again. "I think that he must have been anticipating another accident and even his patience has limits. When he realized that he wouldn't have to train my successor from infancy, that my memories would pass on to the next one..." His voice trailed off, but Sara could finish the horrible line of twisted logic.  
  
"They're already grown," she whispered in shock.  
  
"And waiting, comatose. Sometimes I think he almost wants something to happen to me," Ian mused with an odd detachment. "I think he wants to know what the next one will be like. I don't seem to have turned out precisely as he intended."  
  
"Would he wake one of them if you 'defect'?" She felt macabre for asking, but couldn't help it. "Would he try again to create a version he could control?"  
  
"No. He can't. Not if he wants him to have the memories. Those only pass on if I die."  
  
"Then don't do that anytime soon, please."  
  
"I'll try my best."  
  
They sat huddled together on the sofa, neither wanting to move away from the other just yet. It was all so much to absorb in such a relatively short amount of time, Sara thought. She knew that much of it would be integrated with her slowly returning 'other' memories by morning though. Even now all of the things they'd talked about tonight had the feel of old conversations already. Deciding that there was only so much she could take in one sitting, she rose and stretched.  
  
"Coming?" she asked, holding out a hand. He looked at it apprehensively and she rolled her eyes. Back to this, she thought. "You've slept here every night for the past month, Ian. Why would you leave now that you have an actual invitation? Get up. Come to bed. Try not to kick so much tonight, huh?"  
  
A slow smile appeared on his weary face. "Yes, ma'am." 


	8. The Messenger

It is early. He knows that she probably isn't up. He is only up at this hour because he hasn't been down yet. He is not surprised when she fails to answer the door. Turning the knob experimentally he gives her a mental chiding for leaving it unlocked. Most people in this neighborhood would wake up to ransacked apartments if they didn't latch their doors. He chuckles to himself and thinks he'd probably feel sorry for any would-be burglar who tries to knock over this place. Being a cop is the least scary characteristic of the woman who lives here.  
  
He silently promises to drop off the disks she has asked for and leave without waking her. He nearly breaks the vow as soon as he makes it. Screw burglars, he thinks when he sees that she's not alone. He recognizes the man at her side and bites his tongue on the sharp word that almost slips out. He'd feel sorry for a small invading army that tried to take on these two together. He gives a large army even odds. Then he thinks of Joan and revises that estimate too.  
  
Though he knows that he never really had a chance, he can't help feeling a little wistful for the opportunity lost. There is a flare of red among the bedsheets and he takes an involuntary step backward. Wistful, not jealous, he thinks at it hard. There is a conciliatory pulse and he shakes his head in bemusement. Though he has spent half a short lifetime reading its stories, he is impressed to see that yet another of them appears to be true. It does have a mind of its own. And although he would dearly love to see it in action, he is wise enough to know that few who get that opportunity seldom live long enough to see much more. He is also wise enough to know that he does not have to see it unleashed to be in danger. Sometimes it is just as hazardous to be in its proximity as it is to be its target. Its friends are often as short-lived as its enemies.  
  
Feeling more than a little like a peeping tom, he guiltily watches them for a moment longer. If he is not allowed to be jealous, perhaps he can be protective. If he cannot be her partner, he will be her brother. And as an honorary brother it is his duty to frown on the men his sister brings home. Frowning at this one is not difficult. They are not curled up together, cute and cuddly like new lovers. Instead they sleep sprawled across the bed like a couple long-accustomed to sharing the small space. The man's foot kicks gently, yet persistently at her shin. The woman gives way eventually, but not before kneeing him sharply in the thigh. It is too practiced a move to be anything but deliberate, even in sleep, and the boy shakes his head. He wonders why he ever hoped to compete against history, against destiny. Mortals and legends just don't mix.  
  
Still, he knows that this cycle is sometimes broken. Her life crosses many others through the ages. The warrior moves in and out of the picture, weaving his own mystic bloodline. The bard gets his chance once in a while. There are occasionally others. Maybe after a lifetime or five of faithful service he might get his chance too. There is the faintest flicker of crimson. A whisper of a promise, he wonders. Or just the jewel catching the light as her arm moves across the form beside her? He wonders how many lives he has based on just such a tenuous hint.  
  
He leaves quickly before the Witchblade decides to rouse them after all. He suspects that his life expectancy rate would drop dramatically if either of them woke to find him there. The disks that he left on her desk are a dead giveaway, he admits, but maybe she won't notice them until after tall, dark, and scary leaves. If his first death threat is any indication of how intense the guy can be when half-heartedly carrying out his master's instructions, he doesn't even want to think about how terrifying he'd be when voluntarily protecting his own territory. She is not one to cross lightly either, but he thinks that maybe he can claim sibling rights with her. She probably won't kill him for this unexpectedly early morning visit. He hopes.  
  
He slips out the door again, making sure it latches behind him. He does not see the dark eyes that have opened slightly to watch his departure. His retreat would otherwise be more hasty. 


	9. The Master

It is early. He knows that his ersatz son has not been home all night. He knows because he has been waiting all night. He paces the sumptuous study as he has for hours, pausing occasionally to glower at one of the room's numerous portraits though he knows that the woman in them is oblivious. She is slowly but surely taking something very valuable from him and he is not happy. The boy has fallen under her spell once again despite all the care he has taken over the decades to prevent it. The sullen, passive insubordination that began the moment the new wielder took the Witchblade has become open rebellion and no form of coercion has been enough to rein him in.  
  
His hand tingles and he strokes the scar reflexively. The Witchblade cannot shut him out even if it wants to. Conversely, he cannot block it either. He has the distinct, aggravating impression that it is currently laughing at him. The bond between wielder and warrior is becoming stronger by the moment and he can feel the gauntlet's smug approval. He understands its approbation. Together they are a formidable pair.  
  
He knows it has always been inevitable that they would find one another. He has taken extraordinary measures to ensure that their meeting comes on his terms. He has arranged the acquisition of the Witchblade. He has orchestrated the upbringing of the warrior. He has searched for and stockpiled all possible sources of knowledge about any of them. With such painstaking care taken in all these elements it seems inevitable that the new wielder should be drawn to him.  
  
Lose control of one, the Witchblade taunts, lose control of it all.  
  
His hand burns and he tightens it into a fist. His restless pacing drives him from the study and he finds himself outside the boy's room. He enters, knowing with irritation that it will be unoccupied. It has been unoccupied for a month. It is excruciatingly neat. There is no personal ornamentation, never has been. He has made sure that the boy never grew attached to material possessions. That virtue makes it difficult to determine if anything is missing. The desktop is empty; there is nothing that will make a gratifying sound when it smashes. The thin blanket torn from the bed does not make any noise at all when tossed to the floor, but the disorder is somewhat soothing. The wardrobe is opened and shelves of black sweaters and slacks soon follow. He cannot tell if there are any fewer than there should be. Bureau drawers, he realizes with satisfaction, are things that crash agreeably when thrown.  
  
His transient rage vented, he returns to the study. He knows at once that someone has been there in his absence. He knows of only one person who could have, who would have done so. There is a single sheet of paper in the center of his desk. He reads it. He reads it again in disbelief. He reads it a third time in anger. He throws the formal, impersonal letter of resignation into the fireplace and watches until it is nothing but ashes. Then he reaches for the telephone and informs his newly promoted head of security that the former head is no longer welcome on the premises. Use of deadly force to ensure compliance is acceptable. He holds no expectations that such dissuasion will be in any way successful, but it seems to be the appropriate action to take.  
  
For the first time he regrets that the boy's training has been so impeccable and that his skills have been put to such extensive use in recent years. He admits ruefully that he cannot think of anyone left who is capable of killing the young traitor. For the first time a hint of doubt creeps in; perhaps he has underestimated the boy all along. He wonders if other designs have been running concurrently with his own. He does not linger on such thoughts extensively. There are still other plans to be set in motion. This situation, though regrettable, is not entirely unanticipated. 


	10. The Morning After

Sara woke to see Ian sitting on the edge of the bed putting on... no, taking off his boots. She sat up and touched his shoulder, feeling the damp of early morning fog that had seeped into his shirt.  
  
"Where've you been already?" she asked.  
  
He shrugged casually. "Handing in my termination papers at Vorschlag."  
  
"Termination papers?" Her eyebrows crept up at the odd grin that she was already entirely too fond of. She remembered what this particular expression usually meant. It meant that someone else somewhere else was not smiling at all.  
  
"I believe that they now have standing orders to shoot me on sight."  
  
She had to smirk at his unconventional sense of humor. "You just aren't happy unless someone is trying to kill you, are you?"  
  
The shrug again, the widening grin. "They're welcome to try."  
  
Sara sighed. "While I appreciate the gesture," she said. "And believe me, I understand why you did it. Are you really sure you're ready to piss him off like that?"  
  
"What's done is done. After all that has happened, I cannot go back."  
  
"It's not going to be that easy."  
  
"I know."  
  
She looked at him with frank astonishment. The transformation which began with her promise to help him just the night before was hurtling along at an almost alarming speed. She was half-afraid that this was proceeding too quickly, that the real battle had not yet been engaged. But she couldn't deny that there was something charming about his enthusiasm for his newly discovered freedom. She only hoped that it wasn't crushed when Irons threw the first serious obstacle at them.  
  
"So what are you going to do now?" she asked, leaning back on her elbows. "Follow me around full-time? Or try actually getting a life?"  
  
"Maybe a little of both," he said with a smile that she liked even more than the grin. She watched curiously as he set a small PDA on the nightstand crate. "Offer number one," he said as the email icon flashed. "Despite what your partner thinks, I do have a reputation that does not rely entirely on my proficiency at killing things."  
  
"People," she amended for him. She really was going to have to cure him of that gesture, she thought absently as he shrugged once again.  
  
"If I'm engaged to protect something, it stays protected. That is an offer for the head of security position at the biomedical research facility of Vorshlag's leading competitor."  
  
"You've been busy this morning. And you are really raring to irk him, aren't you?" She was torn between being impressed at his wholehearted break with Irons and being very, very worried about his disturbingly persistent suicidal tendencies. Something else she needed to cure him of and soon.  
  
"I haven't taken it yet." He gave her the maddening grin that made most rational people sprint for cover. "I expect offers from a few other rival players as well. Then I can decide which one will vex him most."  
  
"You're incorrigible," she snorted as he nestled beneath the blankets once again. "Not to mention the fact that you kick in your sleep, have an annoying habit of vanishing into thin air, and you're carrying around a massively unhealthy death wish. What am I going to do with you?" she wondered rhetorically.  
  
"Anything you want," he said, eyes already closed. There wasn't a hint of flippancy in his voice. Sometimes his guileless subservience was downright unnerving, she mused. She wasn't sure if she should be offended on his behalf... or if she should take advantage of his ingenuous offer. As she stared down at his face she was struck once again by how innocent he looked in repose. In some respects, she realized, he still was. She brushed a finger lightly across his lips and watched them curve in response. And that, she thought, was probably the easiest affliction of all to cure. 


End file.
